


Rules

by Eligh



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: M/M, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a <a href="http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/3689.html?thread=2538089">prompt</a> on the Grimm Kink Meme. </p><p>Monroe was supposed to be the blutbad - the one who had an animal in him that he couldn't control; the one he calls his anger. Nick never understood how people could get so irrevocably angry that all reason leaves them, and they end up a blood-thirsty, vengeful monster.</p><p>And then he gets a call from Hank that Monroe's house has been attacked, and a body was found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Man I love it when the story just comes...

The day had been good.

That night, sitting alone and sleepless in a hotel room, that was the thought that Nick kept worrying like a blutbad with a bone—his day, prior to around four pm, had been excellent.

But when he’d come back from his (very) late lunch, it had been to the station in the midst of suiting up, swirling with the kind of frantic energy that Nick had learned to associate with violent crime. This of course could put a damper on the best of days, though not necessarily made it terrible. But then Hank had pulled him aside, guiding him toward Renard’s office before he could get a word in and Wu and given him a look of shocked pity as he jogged past. Nick felt something painful tighten in his chest.

“Hank—” Nick tried to ask, confused.

But Renard was guiding him to sit down, then perching himself on the side of his desk and obviously trying to think of the proper words. Nick’s awareness narrowed to Renard’s tie clip and the thumbprint marring its smooth gold surface, to Hank’s hand, heavy and warm but holding with a hint of restraint to his shoulder, and the words coming from Renard’s mouth, ‘ _fire’_ and ‘ _Monroe’_ and ‘ _body_.’

Nick lost it, clearly.

Months later, he would think back on that afternoon. It was mostly a series of jumbled images—pushing Hank aside to get out of the office, the imperative to just get home blaring through his brain. He remembered thinking that if he could get home, it would prove that it couldn’t have happened, that their house hadn’t been burned down, that no charred body had been found.

There was blackness, or redness, whichever—he’d never understood when Monroe had talked obliquely about the urge to rip and tear, when the red cloud descended over his higher functions, but he thought he understood now. He didn’t remember breaking anything in Renard’s office, but later, after everything was over, he noticed a new chair, a new lamp, several missing trinkets. Renard never mentioned it, so neither did Nick.

Another patchy memory was sitting silent in Hank’s car. Nothing about how he got from the precinct to there, but when Nick’s brain caught up again, they were already a block from his house. Nick could smell the fire, was mesmerized by the flashing red of the trucks gathered in a semi-circle in front of what was left. There wasn’t much, just a lightly smoking pile of rubble. He remembered starting to cry—hot, angry tears that just made him feel worse, more lost. He stopped after only a few seconds.

He must have wandered the property, taking in the clear signs of arson. They hadn’t even bothered to hide it, leaving gas cans and a box of matches. There were heavy chains linked through the remnants of the front and back doors and the windows had been nailed shut. They’d locked him in before they burnt him.

Of course, the clearest sign was the gigantic scythe burned into the front yard. Because what good was killing the grimm’s lover if he didn’t know who had done it?

Nick knew, in a detached sort of way, that he was scaring Hank, wandering as he was, his face blank and dry. He didn’t give a shit.

Hank tried to get him to stay with him, offering up his spare bedroom, citing that Nick shouldn’t be alone right now. Nick declined his offer, the fugue that was clouding his mind dissipating. No, now everything was coming into focus, and Nick… well. Nick had shit to do.

The one thing he _didn’t_ do was go see the body in the morgue. He wouldn’t be able to recognize Monroe through the damage, anyway, or so one of the firefighters had hesitantly said.

An hour after leaving the crime scene (because he couldn’t think of it as his home, that thought made the pain and panic set in again, and Nick wasn’t kidding when he said he had Shit To Do) he had checked into a hotel with nothing in his possession other than what he kept in his truck. He didn’t even have the benefit of his books—no, he’d taken over the spare bedroom with his grimm tools and they’d burned with everything else.

He tried to sleep, knowing that he’d need energy if he wanted to hunt in the morning, but of course he couldn’t. So he sat and stared at the wall in his dark room, thinking about what a good day it had been before, thinking about how Monroe had made coffee for him that morning after sleepy sex and kissed him goodbye with his glasses on the tip of his nose, how they had tickets for some ridiculous indie concert this weekend, how endlessly excited Monroe had been when he got them.

The next day, grateful that Renard had signed him up for mandatory leave, Nick left the hotel and went into the woods. He had no idea where to start, not really, but his instincts told him ‘The Woods,’ so he went without questioning it.

Of course they were waiting for him—five of them, all with varying degrees of injury—and Nick loved Monroe a little more for that; of course he hadn’t given up without a fight. But Nick didn’t have much time to dwell on it, instead swinging into action, lashing out and fighting, but he was outnumbered, out-weaponed, and hadn’t slept.

Eventually, Nick found himself on his knees, a jagged dagger pressed to his throat, a troll’s rotting breath ghosting unpleasantly over his cheek. Another was lying beheaded to his side, one was gurgling its last breaths against a tree, impaled with a bolt from Nick's crossbow through his throat. The other two were watching, crooked grins marred by blood.

“He screamed,” the reaper whispered. “And begged. Pathetic, really.”

Nick growled, a noise he wasn’t aware he could make, something he’d always thought was more Monroe’s thing. The red descended.

When Nick’s vision cleared again, the last three trolls were little more than bloody smears on the forest floor. He stood on shaking legs and glanced around at the carnage, unconcerned. Vigilantism wasn’t really accepted in police circles, but he didn’t care. They’d deserved it. He wiped his bloody hands onto his bloody clothes, realized it hadn’t made any sort of difference, and sank down heavily to the gore-strewn ground.

He didn’t feel any better.

Eventually though, he had to get up, clean himself best he could, and go back to the hotel. And later, scrubbed clean and ruined clothes thrown away, he sat again on the edge of his bed and stared blankly at the wall. There were missed calls from Hank and Renard on his phone, but he ignored them. Nothing really mattered right now. He lay down and shifted his gaze to the ceiling.

Eons later, he opened his eyes to a dream.

“You are such an idiot,” Monroe told him, leaning over the bed with its scratchy hotel sheets. “Do you have any idea how much work you’ve made for us to clean up that mess in the forest?”

Nick smiled up at him. “Doesn’t matter.”

Monroe shook his head and leaned down, breathing deep at the spot behind Nick’s ear. His beard tickled, and Nick blinked. He sat up, disbelieving and shaky, and Monroe leaned back to avoid a headbutt situation. Nick stared at him, brought his hand up to gently touch his face. In the dim light coming in through the hotel window, he could see that Monroe was bruised, his nose was broken, his lips were split.

“…I’m not dreaming?”

With the familiar ‘you’ve-lost-your-mind’ look, Monroe shook his head. Nick let out a distinctly un-manly choked exclamation, then tackled Monroe backward onto the bed. “You’re alive,” he breathed. “There was…”

“A body, I know. It was a reaper? I killed him? And then they knocked me out and held me in a shack in the woods for a couple days, and then I may have done things that are of the illegal variety and escaped, and found your lovely mess in the woods, then followed your scent here.” Monroe gave Nick a disapproving look. “I thought you’d know better than to make such a scene.”

“I thought you were dead,” Nick whispered, and set to work tasting every inch of Monroe’s skin he could.

“Still…” Monroe’s protests dwindled in favor of letting Nick pull his shirt open. “No need to be—” he gasped as Nick bit his shoulder and kissed up his neck, “Um. Lackadaisical… about it… jeez, Nick…”

“Distraught,” Nick argued, and shrugged off his top. “Wasn’t thinking clearly.” He ripped open the zip on Monroe’s jeans, ignoring the bruising and scabbing lacerations on his body for the time being—they could get Monroe to a hospital later, but now, now—

Now was time for Nick to slide down the bed, to pull Monroe out, to open his mouth, but a thought struck before he could get any further. He stopped and bunched his hands in the sheets on either side of Monroe’s thighs.

“You are absolutely _not_ allowed to die, that’s against the rules,” Nick ordered, his eyes tightly closed, fighting the tears he could feel building. “I can’t—” He looked up to see Monroe staring at him with wide eyes. There was a beat of silence, then Monroe let out a choked noise of his own and bodily hauled Nick back up, touching his cheek, nuzzling against his neck, ignoring his injuries.

“Nick—” His voice was gravel and it broke Nick utterly. He buried his face in the fur on Monroe’s chest and sobbed, the horror of the last days crashing down on him at once, the realization that he couldn’t live without this man, had murdered for him, had been willing to die, everything.

“Hey,” Monroe whispered, stroking his head and clinging close. “I’m here, it’s okay, I’m here.” 


End file.
